don't be alarmed if i fall head over feet
by Wilhelmina Willoughby
Summary: L/J. 'James chuckles. "I should get on? What did I marry you for if you're not going to make breakfast in the morning?"'


_A/N: Heard Alanis on the radio on my way home yesterday, took about three seconds to realize how perfect this song was for James and Lils, and decided to write this. I know it's short, but I hope you enjoy anyway :D _

_(Oh, and if the rating needs to be jumped up to M, let me know.)_

_Stay shiny,  
Mina_

_

* * *

  
I've never felt this healthy before  
I've never wanted something rational  
I am aware now  
I am aware now_

_You've already won me over in spite of me  
And don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet  
Don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are  
I couldn't help it  
It's all your fault_

- Alanis Morissette, "Head Over Feet"

* * *

The ceiling fan turns lazy circles in the humid, midday air, stirring up the smell of paint fumes and sweat and cleaning products. The mattress, bare save a fitted sheet, rests on the floor; on the mattress, bare save a light blanket, Lily rests, her hair for once as wild and untamed as her husband's. The thought, among others - like the events that led to such unruly hair - makes her smile.

She rolls into him and rests her head on his shoulder, not in the least surprised that he is already awake and watching her. "Mmm. Morning."

"Afternoon," he corrects, pulling her closer. His hands are warm and pressing on her skin, but he moves slowly, languidly, taking his time even as he runs his lips back and forth across hers. "How are you?"

She assesses. It takes but a second, and then she's smirking just the way she knows he loves. "Sore. And tired. And I could definitely use some breakfast, which you should get on, but mostly sore."

James chuckles. "_I _should get on? What did I marry you for if you're not going to make breakfast in the morning?"

"Afternoon," she corrects. Then, toying with the sparse patch of hair on his chest, "And I believe you married me because I was the only woman willing to shag you for the rest of my unfortunate life."

He doesn't argue this. He only rolls them over so that he's resting his weight on top of her, kisses the soft stretch of skin underneath her ear, and murmurs, "You are also the one who pounced on me yesterday and said, 'Oh, James, my amazing husband! Put that brush down and shag me until the sun comes up, won't you?' while I was trying to paint our bedroom, so _I _believe the whinging should stop here."

Laughing, she pushes him off of her. "You are such a prat."

"Oh, here we go," he says, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Go right on. We both know what you want to say, so just - "

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He sits up, his spine perfectly straight, and scrunches up his face. "Potter," he screeches in a horrible imitation of her voice, "You are such a big headed, bullying, irritating piece of scum, and if you ever, ever breathe in my near vicinity again, I will hex you so far into next Tuesday that you will still hear me shouting my attempts at denial at you!"

Her quiet giggles turn into guffaws, and soon they're both laughing until tears run down their faces, because it's safe to joke about their past now. And even though they can laugh like this, there is still a dull ache in her chest from all the time they wasted and all the pain she caused him. He insists that it's okay now, that they're here and married and all that time doesn't matter, but she still remembers the look in his eyes when she would say no, never, when she would shout at him and shove him away.

The ache won't ever get better, but there are mornings like this, though there have only been a few of them so far, when she feels it lessen: the two of them in their own little house, unpacking boxes and painting walls and merging _his _and _hers _into _theirs _so effortlessly that she has to wonder if it'll always be this easy, loving him.

He's finally able to breathe enough to say, "Merlin, Evans - "

"Potter."

"What?"

She smiles. "It's Potter now, Potter."

"Ah, right," he says, and his stare softens, and the warmth deep in her body spreads, and she thinks that, yes, loving him, if not an easy thing, will always be worth it. He leans down and kisses her, and it's a replay of last night all over again, especially as his palm rests innocently on her stomach, the cold of his ring below her belly button making her shiver.

"Mrs. Potter."

And as much as she'd love to spend all day on their little mattress on the floor of their halfway painted bedroom, they've got a lot of work to do.

"I really do want breakfast," she whispers into his ear before sliding out from under his arm. Laughing over his disappointed groan, she tugs the light blanket away from him, wraps it around herself, and winks at him as she skips down the hall.

"You are an evil, heartless woman, Potter!" he shouts after her.

"That's why you married me," she calls back.

She nearly trips over a box just at the foot of the stairs and, cursing, pushes it into the nearly finished living room. Their sofa and loveseat sit on a comfy rug in front of the small fireplace, a painting Dorcas gave them at the wedding rests on the mantle among other family pictures, and in the corner, on top of the television James insisted on having, is the very last box labeled 'Living Room.'

It is then, when she crosses the room and is halfway to the box, that she notices the smell.

"James, were you down here earlier?" she calls as she pads across the carpet. "Did you leave the stove on?"

She hears him coming down the stairs after her, hears him trip over the box that she just moved, hears him curse, hears it slide across the floor, and then feels his hands on her waist as she is frozen in the doorway.

Eggs and toast and waffles and sausage and bacon and muffins and jam and warm syrup and butter and fresh coffee and milk and cinnamon and - she leans back into him and closes her eyes and smells their scent and all this food and opens her eyes to the beautiful noon sun peeking through the window above the sink.

"You already made breakfast," she says, deciding she'll be the one to break their silence with the obvious. She feels him nod against her head and can't decide what to go for first, the coffee or her husband, so she says, "I _love_ you," and nearly dives for the pot.

He leans against the doorframe, the fitted sheet wrapped clumsily around his hips, and sighs. "Be that as it may, I hope you know you aren't going to get any of this for free."

Lily looks up from her mug, resigned. "Alright, but I'm not leaving this room until I've eaten."

His smirk is utterly devious. "You won't have to."

"James, for heaven's sake," she scolds, but then his eyes darken and he's in front of her and she remembers that, well, they _are_ newlyweds, aren't they? And her hands are on his shoulders and it's not like they have anything else to do today, really, only painting and kissing and… unpacking… and other… things…

_God, _does she love him.

* * *


End file.
